The bride and groom rushed over to greet the guests. They rushed to the front of the flowers. They smiled at each other. 1, 2, 3. Button clicked. Shutters whirred. Families hurried to pose next to the newly-weds. 1, 2, 3. Guests hastened to save memories. 1, 2, 3. Everyone on the scene dashed to gather in one last photo. 1, 2, 3. Button clicked and camera shutters whirred.

“Thank you so much. We are for…”

Gunshots tore through the air and interrupted the bride. The wedding’s laughter and buoyancy turned into a mixture of panic and chaos. Everyone pushed one another to make their way into the shelter. Family members tried to look for one another before they fled. The couple turned to look at each other in fear, gave each other a brief kiss, and hand in hand, they left for the shelter. That was a painful scene to watch: the bride was still wearing her wedding dress, the groom was still wearing his suit, everyone was wearing their best outfits. 1, 2, 3. Button clicked and camera shutters whirred.

That was the one thing she hated about her job. She was always photographing the worse facets of humankind. She was always intruding on the most intimate moments. She was always feeling guilty when she took shots like these. Every time the guiltiness came, she forced herself to remember why she became a photojournalist in the first place: she needed to capture these moments to show the world what war looked like, to show future generations the mistakes their predecessors made.

In the shelter, she looked at the wedding photos and found herself wrapped in peace and warmth. “This is the better side of humankind, a nice break anyway,” she thought for two seconds before echoes of gunshots stopped her line of thinking, and she turned to think about her time at home.

She promised her family fewer military bang-bang pictures, and more documentary photos of people’s lives, but somehow, she always found herself amidst the gun fire. War was all about brutality of various forms, yet she found it repetitive: the same play, just with a different cast. That was ok. Her job was to make the repetitiveness known. The best shots were the most dangerous, and she loved the adrenaline rush that came with them. Thus, she made up her mind and left the shelter to do her job.

It was not as crowded or chaotic as she thought. There was a group of soldiers who seemed to be ambling along the road. They were smoking, playing with their guns, firing random shots in all directions. “They must be drunk, or they want to show off their shooting skills?” she thought, then smirked at herself, “Does it even matter why?” At that moment, her mother and her grandfather came to her mind. She thought of their sad eyes, their defeated voices as they implored her to care about her survival, aware as they were of her recklessness. Deafening gunshots pulled her back to the peril in front of her. Funny how, by this point, the roar of bullets sounded almost like a song in her ears.

This group of soldiers beat out a staccato rhythm that warned her of imminent danger. There were very few people on the road. She should have brought someone with her. “Too late. If I run away, I’ll escape or get shot. If I stay, I’ll get photos or get shot.” She had a gun with her, but it would only make the matter worse if she used it. The smell of cigarettes intensified. The sounds grew clearer. The blurry figures became more defined. She was vacillating between her choices when her attention was drawn towards a soldier who was emerging out of a bush with a knife in his mouth. He was wearing a green helmet and a ratty messenger bag. He was holding up another man’s hand, as if it was a trophy. Amused at the sight, the other soldiers started laughing and fired another round of gunshots into the air. The soldier’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction at his accomplishment. Thirty seconds later, her eyes met his. Time froze. In long strides, he sauntered over. As he approached her, he raised both of his arms perpendicular to his chest, as if he was a zombie. Other soldiers became hysterical and started giving what looked like a standing ovation. Now she had become the cast. Her mind went blank. Her face grew pale. Her forehead was soaked in sweat. Nonetheless, her trembling hands kept on working. Button clicked and clicked. Shutters whirred and whirred. She did not dare look at him with her eyes anymore, only through her fisheye lens. For a second she thought of taking a photo with flash, to make him conscious of the fact that she had nothing to do with this war, just a photojournalist at her job, nothing more. Through her lens, he was small at first, yet he grew with every step he took. His clothes were dirty. He was also wearing a scarf. His skin was tanned. He had the experienced face of someone who had been to countless battles and gained the same number of scars and scratches. His fingernails were white. The fingernails of the hand he was holding were also white. She started to wonder if she could ever see her parents again. His face was blank, mouth open, eyes steely. She lied to herself: “It’ll be fine,” but she was torn between doing something and doing nothing. She could hear his gasping breath, feel his presence. He raised one hand high in the air with an obvious intention of slapping her face. He swung it downwards with an evident confidence that she could never avoid it. Five years of taekwondo and her survival instincts did not allow that slap to happen. She put down her camera and caught the hand before it ever reached its destination.

Should she fight him? Would other soldiers shoot her if she did that? She looked at him in search of a hint of his intentions, in the hope that she could negotiate with him. She was a foreigner who was not involved in the war. She might stand a chance of not being killed. The other soldiers hollered while they threw another round of gunshots. The soldier looked surprised at first. Then he raised one eyebrow. His eyes sharpened. His face hardened. He didn’t seem interested in talking at all. It was obvious: she had no other choices but to continue with her taekwondo. “Dead or alive, que sera sera,” she told herself. Let the game begin.

“Alright, attack first, defend later,” she decided. She raised her leg to her waist, pulled her toes back and extended her foot at his belly. She repeated three times while alternating her leg. At the third time, he grabbed her leg and pushed her onto the ground. Her back collided against the hard surface. She’d feel it later. He was close. She stood up and got into position again. This time she turned around 180 degrees and aimed her leg at his back. The kick pushed him to fall. He stood back up and swung his fist at her head. She dodged it and threw a punch at his cheek in retaliation. He staggered just a little. She did not intend to be harsh. “He’s a little drunk,” she thought. He stabilized himself and aimed his leg at her abdomen. She flew into the air and slid several meters before she landed. He came to her and threw her camera at her. His chest heaved as he spoke:

“I’m not shooting you today, but I can’t say the same about my friends.”

She was startled by his voice. She did not expect him to speak to her. She tried to stand up, assumed that was a signal that she could run away, so she sprinted to hide behind a large tree nearby. Gun fires were still roaring behind her back. Behind the tree, she poked her head out into view, lifted her camera, and saw him walk back to his people through her fisheye lens. 1, 2, 3. Button clicked. Camera shutters whirred.